For Such a Time as This, Blessed the Makers of Space
A Wicked Moxie Evening with Heidi Carrington Heath, executive director of New Hampshire Outright
New Hampshire has been a leader in advancing LGBTQ+ protections and rights, legalizing same-sex marriage in 2009—something that didn’t even happen at the federal level until 2015—and extending non-discrimination laws to include transgender individuals in 2018—again, something that didn’t even happen at the federal level until 2020, and even that took a Supreme Court case.
For years, LGBTQ+ youth and their families found cautious hope in the progress, believing that access to affirming healthcare, education, and public spaces would only grow stronger in the Granite State. But a wave of legislation aimed at curtailing trans rights—especially for minors—has swept through the State House, threatening to unravel those hard-won, early gains.
Bills like HB 1205 that specifically bans transgender girls from participating in school sports teams that align with their gender identity, though not much is said in the bill about the bans on transgender boys. And like HB 619 that restricts access to gender-affirming medical care for minors, including puberty blockers and hormone therapy—making it harder or even impossible for trans youth to receive healthcare that aligns with medical best practices and improves mental health outcomes.
And HB 148, which allows businesses and government entities to separate bathrooms, locker rooms, and changing facilities based on biological sex—passed in the chamber 201-166 and will soon move on to the Senate.
“There is a real cost to our kids when they have to live in fear because of political targeting… even when the bills don’t pass, there is still a cost,” said Heidi Carrington Heath, executive director of New Hampshire Outright.
For more than thirty years, New Hampshire Outright has been the quiet but unwavering backbone of LGBTQ+ youth support in the state. It began as a grassroots response to an unmet need—when a group of parents realized their queer kids had nowhere to turn—and has grown into a statewide organization offering consistent, affirming programming. The centerpiece remains Friday Night Group, a weekly in-person gathering where middle and high school youth can connect, create, and simply exist without explanation. Other offerings include a virtual biweekly support group, an affirming Dungeons & Dragons club, and a monthly hybrid support group for parents and caregivers navigating how to support their kids.
Beyond direct support, Outright plays a key role in systemic change. Its Education and Training team travels across New Hampshire working with schools, nonprofits, and local businesses to build allyship and teach inclusive practices. The Queer Youth Resilience Project trains mental health providers—especially in underserved areas—to offer competent, affirming care to LGBTQ+ youth, many of whom have historically been turned away, misunderstood, or harmed by providers lacking cultural fluency. These efforts expand the safety net across the state, reinforcing Outright’s philosophy that community care requires more than compassion—it requires skill.
Outright has become a fixture at the State House, testifying, organizing, and coordinating with advocacy partners to resist policy attacks on LGBTQ+ lives.
“You know, our kids in New Hampshire have spent two plus years now living in a political climate where the very folks who are supposed to be charged with protecting them and caring for them are asking questions like, should they exist,” said Heidi.
Heidi leads New Hampshire Outright with a background that blends nonprofit leadership, political advocacy, and ministry. A longtime resident of the Seacoast, she has spent nearly two decades working in movements for LGBTQ+ equality, previously holding roles at institutions like Phillips Exeter Academy, Family Equality, and MassEquality. Prior to her current executive role at Outright, she served as Executive Director of the New Hampshire Council of Churches. She is also an ordained minister.
Heidi grew up in a small town, attending a local Episcopal church—a branch of the mainline denominations. She describes that experience as wonderful, nurturing, and full of love. But in college, she stepped into evangelical, non-denominational Christianity. That shift happened around the same time her queer identity began to surface.
Then someone outed her to her pastor.
“You can continue to come to worship here if you choose to do that,” her pastor said. “But we won’t recognize this piece of who you are. You can come to church, but if you start dating someone, they’re not welcome. Really though, you should just know, you could have a very powerful ministry of leading people out of homosexuality.”
“I couldn’t stay in that version of Christianity and be a person of wholeness or of integrity,” she said.
And besides, she said she was effectively excommunicated.
“I was really clear that God and I were good. I knew God loved me. I was clear about that piece. But for a little while, I was on a breakup with the institutional church.”
The institutional church that demanded silence in exchange for belonging. That offered conditional welcome and called it grace. That called itself love while putting conditions on who got to stay. She left the church that asked her to lead others out of their own wholeness.
“In real ways I have spent my whole life, you know, within Christianity, but also as I’ve gotten older and clearer and come to know myself more fully, that is also a choice that I’ve made.”
Instead, she chose the version of the faith that centers on justice, mercy, and humility. The kind that believes the only thing that counts is how we love. The kind that resists conformity in favor of deep transformation and renewal of the mind.
“This is the faith that I practice and it informs how I live in the world and care for people and love them.”
A few weeks ago, the caregiver group gathered like they always do—around a table, in a shared space of support. Normally, the room fills quickly with conversation and laughter. You can always tell who’s new. They’re quiet at first. They listen more than they speak. Eventually, one of them will cry—not because anything terrible happened in the room, but because nothing happened. No judgment. No fixing. Just presence. Parents trade stories, compare notes, pass tissues.
Heidi doesn’t usually come to these meetings. But that night, she was there.
Someone made a quick Starbucks run up the road, trying to sneak a to-go cup under the table to a friend. But she was caught. “Where’s ours?” someone asked. The laughter came like normal but thin. Nervous. Held at edges.
Heidi had come to brief the parents on what was happening in Concord—on the bills specifically aimed at trans youth, on the hearings, and on what was potentially coming next. No one looked away. No one interrupted. When she finished she asked if there were any questions. It was the quietest silence anyone in that room had ever heard.
Outright’s work stretches, of course, far beyond any one single caregiver gathering though. Its staff trains educators, mental health providers, and businesses—building the cultural fluency needed to support queer and trans youth with skill, not just goodwill. They work in schools, clinics, and hospitals to make sure young people are met by adults who know what they are doing. And Outright advocates alongside partners like GLAD, the ACLU, Rights and Democracy, Planned Parenthood, 603.
And still, at the center is a Friday night. The folding tables get pushed aside and someone always brings Oreos. There are board games stacked in the corner, half-complete sketches on printer paper, and a tangle of rainbow lanyards looped through abandoned water bottles. Someone starts a playlist. Someone else rolls out a yoga mat in the back and just lies there, eyes closed, decompressing.
Sometimes there are crafts—perler beads fused into tiny pixelated shapes, pride flags and cats, questionable blobs that only make sense to the kid who made them.
“This group of youth on a Friday night,” Heidi said, “they come together, they eat snacks, they play games, they hang out. They have the opportunity to build relationships with one another and with the adults who are there to support them—and with their own selves.”
A kid in a worn hoodie shows off a new enamel pin. Another leans into a conversation about cartoon crushes. Someone’s trying to explain the mechanics of their D&D character to a confused adult volunteer who’s just smiling and nodding.
And beyond these nights, Outright’s programming extends into other corners. They’ve been to plays, movies. Not long ago, they partnered with the New Hampshire Art Association Gallery for a self-portrait workshop and exhibition.
Heidi has stood before lawmakers, pastors, and parents. But here—at the edge of a folding table covered in bead kits and board games—is where the work takes root. Where kids form the kind of self-knowledge she once had to fight for. Where community is chosen. Week after week.
New Hampshire Outright is hosting its next free virtual training on Wednesday, April 16th from 6-8 pm. This is a great opportunity for caregivers, community members, and individual professionals to learn about supporting LGBTQ+ youth. The link to sign up can be found here.